What Time Taught Us
by Knight0fHeart
Summary: With each press of paper against lips like rose petals, each drag of tar and fiberglass that he so willingly poured into his lungs, like a long lost friend, he knew what he was doing to himself. But it was okay. He didn't care much about his life anyway.


Chapter 1 – When Darkness Falls

It was cold. And the sharp intake of cold air was refreshing, to say the least. When the dry air made its way into his lungs as quickly as he was inhaling it, it felt as if someone were shoving knives down his throat, and he enjoyed the sharp sting. He found comfort in the fact that he was in control of his pain.

It was November. A new leaf had been turned. The sky was painted with the colours of fall; the bright oranges and reds of the tree lines, in stark contrast against the gray skies predicting oncoming snowfall later in the week. School had ended less than an hour ago, and the world seemed empty. He had asked his over-bearing friends to cut him a break, to back off for a moment as he allowed himself to gather his thoughts, a moment of solitude in this desolate town where every face was a familiar one, better known as Tuska, Minnesota.

He was walking along a beaten path near the edge of the woods, stepping over little creeks that seemed to spring up from nowhere, with ease. He squatted near the edge of the water and picked up a few of the stones, examining their smooth, cold surfaces in the heat of his palm. With a flick of the wrist, one of the stones flew from his fingertips, skipping three times before nestling itself comfortably in with the others on the bed of the small creek. He sighed softly and drew the pack of cigarettes from his back pocket of his jeans. With finesse, he withdrew a single Marlboro from its confines, placed the filter between his teeth and watched the fire burn before him as he brought the lighter to life. The familiar scratch of metal against metal; who knew a single spark and the steady stream of butane was all it took to bring light to this world that was all too dark, despite the fact it was daytime. He lit the cigarette and slipped the Zippo into his back pocket. It had been a gift from his father before he left. It was the only thing he had left. He remembered it clearly. He closed his eyes as a breeze lifted the blonde bangs off of his pale forehead, carrying the thin stream of carbon monoxide-tainted smoke with it, his mind carrying him back to a time when he could call his house a home.

He was only 9. It was a spring day; he had woken up earlier than usual and stepped outside for a moment. The weather was pleasant. His family wasn't very rich, but they had been well-off at some point in their lives and they bought a large house near the great lakes, where they had a perfect view of Lake Superior from their porch. More often than not, they would take a stroll along the shore and have stone-skipping competitions, where his mother always seemed to win with a record of 10 skips. He had always looked up to his mother and vowed one day that he would beat that record. He spent time by the shore, skimming the land for smooth, round pebbles and larger stones, trying to figure out with which weight he would get the most distance. He perfected his skill eventually, but his mother would always win.

That morning, he had looked out to the lake and saw that today would be a perfect day for such fun. He smiled and scurried throughout the house to find his mother and father. He had looked in their bedroom and found only his mother, peacefully sleeping. He chuckled softly and closed the door quietly, wishing to go out with his father so they could practice without his mother showing off.

He had searched the entire top level of the house, but found it to be empty. He scampered down the stairs with quick feet, and looked around. He saw suitcases on the wall near the door, and looked at them, confusion settling through him. Father had never told him that he was going away, and he usually could be trusted to keep the family well-informed. He sat down on the carpet in the hallway, leaning his back against one of the white walls, shaking the photograph that hung so delicately from its place directly above his head. He sighed softly and decided he would wait until his father turned up to pester him about it.

The sound of footsteps is what awoke the child later, along with the soft sound of a mother's grievances. He hurriedly looked up the stairs to find his father walking down them and his mother watching after him with the very same cobalt eyes that he inherited. But they had tears inside of them. He couldn't comprehend what was going on.

"Dad?! Where are you going? Why is mom crying?!"

There was no reply. The elder male simply brushed past him, his eyes, the colour of smoked topaz, the stone his mother wore around her neck at all times, pointed towards the floor. He refused to look at his son. He put his lighter on the counter in the kitchen.

"DAD?!"

He picked up his suitcases and grabbed the doorknob, opening the door a bit before he stopped short. He tilted his head slightly to the side, although he still couldn't bear to look at his family. He took a deep, shuddering breath and said two words.

"I'm sorry"

And then he opened the door, and all of the air was sucked out of the room. He walked outside and made his way to his car at the end of the driveway, unlocking the doors and tossing his suitcases inside before slipping into the driver's seat.

He looked at his mother, who was now on the floor, sobbing. He ran up the stairs to see if she was alright and she simply waved him away. He turned around and ran outside, just in time to watch his father speed down the street. And he was left to stand in the middle of the street and force the tears back.

It was more than what a 9 year old should have to bare – being forced to become the man of the household, to support his mother with the raw sting of abandonment fresh in his heart.

He spent a lot of his time after that sitting on the shore and skipping stones as well, but there was a certain air of loneliness to him now. He made himself a creature of solitude, and his mother was never seen wearing the necklace that was such a treasure to her again.

He was torn from his stupor when he heard the sound of footsteps, a crunching sound being produced by the stones grinding against each other as they were pushed in all directions from the person's weight. He couldn't imagine why someone would be out here. It was around 40 degrees, and the humidity of the forest made it worse. He simply flicked the ashes from his forgotten cigarette into the water before him, taking another drag as the person made their way next to the squatting figure, standing tall before speaking with a voice as smooth as velvet-

"Smoking isn't such a wise decision, kid. Didn't your parents ever teach you about that?"

He looked up at the figure before him. He was tall, slim, and had hair like fire, and a face that could only be described as angelic. He had an olive complexion, but had been muted by the cold weather. He looked as if he were from California or somewhere that gets a lot of sun and a lot of coast line. He realized he was staring now and turned to look back over the surface of the small stream, replying in an equally cold voice as he mentally punched himself for even thinking that this smart-ass was attractive in the slightest.

"And didn't your parents ever teach you to mind your own God-damned business?"

The sound that came out of that man's mouth sent him reeling. How could a chuckle ever sound as beautiful as that one had and still manage to piss him off? He choked on something that was probably going to be formed into words at some point in time.

"The way I see it, you're never going to get anywhere in life if you listen to your parents."

He stood up and turned to face the man. He flicked the remains of his cigarette into the water, watching the smoke travel across the surface before turning his attention back to the other. Upon closer inspection, he could tell that he was older than him; despite he was only looking from a side-view. He had two emerald green tattoos, in the shape of upside-down tear drops underneath his eyes, resting on high cheeks, and a profile that even the most skillful plastic surgeon couldn't replicate. His hair shot out in all directions, but it fit him well. He wore a black jacket, not unlike the one he was wearing now, but he seemed less tolerant of the cold. He had leather gloves on, and on top of that, they were in his pockets.

"Yeah, yeah, keep staring like that kid. It isn't going to do you much good, now will it?"

He had turned to face the younger that was staring up at him, and he saw a smirk crawling onto his face as his eyes glanced over him. He was aware that he was shorter than him, although not by much. He saw that the elder had bright green eyes, almost the same colour as those tattoos on his cheeks, but with a hint of yellow. They were breathtaking. Bright and yet, cool. He looked like he knew something nobody else did.

"The name's Axel. Got it memorized?"

Axel. He had a feeling he would never forget that name.

"Are you going to introduce yourself to me, or keep it all a secret?"

He looked over the red-head carefully. Who was he? How come he had never seen him around? And why in the world was he so interesting?

"The name's Roxas."

"Roxas.." He repeated, as if he were simply saying it to roll it around in his mouth, to see how well it would taste. His voice was husky, and the perfect tone to match the attitude. There was a certain air about him that made him seem easy going, but cryptic. He was the type of guy where you always wondered what was on his mind. And the moment you think you've got him all figured out, he turns around and does something to prove you wrong. He was a mystery. A shadow.

People like him made Roxas sick. But unrightfully so. He would be lying to himself if he said he didn't have a side just like that of the elder before him.

"You got a last name, Roxas?"

He lifted a single, perfectly manicured eyebrow along with his question. His peridot eyes seemed to pierce right through him, and Roxas felt exposed. The man was curious, and he couldn't help but be drawn to him.

"Yeah. Kenway. My name is Roxas Kenway. And yourself?"

"Sterling. Nice to meet you."

Axel held out a gloved hand in greeting. Roxas stared at the hand for a moment. He vaguely wondered if the fabric was hot, or if it were cold. What kind of grip he had, how his hand would fit into the contours of the others. He wanted to punch himself in the throat for thinking, something he did all too much in his opinion. His thoughts were his downfall. He reached out and took Axel's hand in his own, shaking it once.

The fabric was cold.

His grip was firm.

They matched perfectly.


End file.
